When inquired about the fuss, Mary guided us into the bedroom lifting the bed sheet that draped its underside. Amidst the skeletal frame of the bed sat an arsenal of coconuts numbering anywhere from 175-200. There they sat huddled in the shadow of the cumbersome bed like gold nuggets fresh from mining.
Mary’s attention was quickly averted as the king beckoned for his toast. The feast began as Mr. Sequeria continued his conversation once more from the beginning. The two remaining occupants shuffled into the kitchen.
Shuttered by what we had witnessed and attune to the lack of interest in our presence led to our adieu.
Later in the early portion of the evening, a rustle commenced in the bushes that outlined the neighboring villa. Two shadows hustled into the night as the man of the house dictated direction from the dim staircase lending to the palatial veranda.
Discussing the nuances of GOA and our proximity to Calangute over tea with a local the following afternoon led to a puzzled expression on the face of the host. A patron of the house translated the location in his native tongue leading to an uproar of laughter and deeper understanding. When asked what he had said, the patron expressed embarrassment. After further coaxing, the patron subsided. “Coconut Thieves” he replied. “Ah yes, Coconut Thieves, no I know exactly where you live”. The house began to burst with exuberance over the impression the Sequerias not only made upon us but other locals within the village.
